when you leave, you will be changed
by asteristar
Summary: It's New York, and there's a bookstore, so of course they fall in love. (You've Got Mail AU)
1. prologue

a/n: all right y'all. i'm doing it. i'm writing fluff.

i know it's not particularly kind of me to post such a small snippet but i am much more likely to keep up with it this way so here we go. and yes i had to take out the warring bookstores angle of you've got mail because let's be real it's 2015 and warring bookstores not so much.

[title from the wonderful song "new york city" by among savages (song rec from gossip girl yep that happened)]

* * *

Here is a small apartment, in a small neighborhood, in a large city.

Here is the windowsill, lined with succulents (from the hardware store on the corner) and bamboo (from K-Mart).

Here is Margaret Hale. And here, two floors below, is the bookstore she inherited when her parents died.

Across town, now, and up, to a parkside tower. To the penthouse, and to the man who lives there, wrapped in crisp gray suits that don't show their age. Here is John Thornton.

And here, further south, among the last of the numbered streets, is the place where, in six days, John and Margaret will meet, really meet, for the first time.


	2. day one

Well, it had taken four long hours, but she was finally making progress.

Margaret looked around the store, wiping her brow on her sleeve. The books were all in boxes, their titles written down on a yellow legal pad that was curling damply in the June heat. Dust was everywhere, streaked across her shorts and drifting thickly in the slices of sun coming through the windows.

That was the extra stock finished. Now there was just… everything else.

Groaning, she tugged her ponytail further up onto her head and stretched until she felt her neck crack. New lines of sweat drew themselves down her back. She could just picture the stain forming there, wrapping around her like some ridiculous kind of cummerbund.

Behind the counter was a small fridge, dented and lopsided, and Margaret swung it open, grabbing at the pitcher of lemonade she'd made for herself and carried down from her apartment upstairs (only spilling once, thank you very much). In the winter she liked to sit in the windowsill, let the steam from her coffee fog up the windows. But this was summer - summer in New York, no less - and that meant that the only thing to do was climb under the counter and sit with her back against the cool side of the fridge, the pitcher of lemonade pressed to her forehead.

It was nice down here, Margaret thought, as beads of condensation rolled off the pitcher and into her hair. Dark. Quiet. Maybe she'd never leave. Only she couldn't remember, had she turned the sign on the door to say closed? Or was it still open? She'd get up and check. And then come back to live permanently under the counter.

The sign was turned the right way, and Margaret leaned forward to rest her forehead on the glass of the door. This close, she could see the heart her mother had drawn on the "Open" side of the sign, down in the corner. The red ink was fading now. It was from years back, when business had been big. When her mom and dad had been around.

They'd had a good run, that was true. But all that was over now.

There wasn't much Margaret planned on keeping from the store. Just a stack or two of books, the ones she'd hidden deep in the shelves to keep them from being purchased. A strand of fairy lights, maybe, from around the windowsills. The bells from the door. And the sign.

She pulled herself back upright and stepped away, heading for the back to grab the step stool. Somebody would be here soon, from The Strand. She'd called the other day to ask about selling her stock, and they'd said a Mr. Bell would stop by to see what was worth taking. And he wouldn't think anything was worth taking if the top shelves stayed looking like a hurricane had blown through.

The travel section was straightened up and re-alphabetized by the time the door swung open with a jingle. Margaret twisted around.

"Careful, my dear," came a voice from the front, and she steadied herself, holding tight to a neat stack of atlases.

"I'll be right with you."

"No hurry."

Margaret checked to make sure the man - Mr. Bell, it had to be Bell - couldn't all the way see her as she brushed flyaways out of her eyes and wished, not for the first time, that she'd splurged on air conditioning. Finally, she clambered down from the step stool and rounded the corner of the aisle to reach the front desk.

Mr. Bell was an older man, whose age was the kind that seemed to disappear the closer she got. He wore a sharply pressed pair of khakis, a striped cardigan, and a button up underneath that Margaret bet was probably short-sleeved.

"Mr. Bell, right? I'm Margaret. I spoke to your associate on the phone."

"Lovely to meet you," he said. "This is a charming little spot."

"Thank you."

"Hasn't changed a bit."

"You've been here before?"

He nodded, his hands flitting up to his chest as if he were used to wearing (and evidently grasping) a pair of suspenders. "Many years ago."

"You must've met my parents. Richard and Maria Hale."

"Oh!" He pushed his glasses further down on his nose and leaned in. Margaret tried not to widen her eyes. He was awfully close to her nose, and at that distance he could definitely see how her makeup had melted and smudged under her eyes. "You must be their daughter."

"That's right."

"It's a shame you're closing. A tough business we're in, these days."

"Very true. Now, can I show you any stock in particular? Anything you're really looking for?"

Mr. Bell began to wander into the stacks, and Margaret hastened after him, snatching the written list of extra stock from the counter.

"We have an extensive used section," he said absently. "I'm sure you know."

"Yes."

"But we're always looking for particularly lovely editions. Maybe something for our Rare Book Room."

Most of the books she had on sale were donations from the community, splitting old paperbacks with the bindings broken. Probably rare only in terms of which particular kinds of spiders were living inside. But every once in a while somebody came in with something wonderful. A first edition, or a limited run hardcover. Or even a signed copy of _Peter Pan_ once, which had helped her buy the store outright, along with the apartment above it and a few months of groceries. And when those books did come in, Margaret kept them in the back, safely out of reach of the kids who spent their Saturdays sprawled in the aisles reading old Hardy Boys mysteries.

"This way," she said, leading him around a dangerously teetering pile of cookbooks.

She didn't have much, but what she did have, Mr. Bell seemed to like. He meandered along, tagging everything he wanted carefully with yellow Post-Its. Margaret was half falling asleep (it was hot and oh, she was tired, she should've done bicep curls or something to prepare for all that lifting and packing) when she heard Mr. Bell take in a sharp breath.

"What is it?" she said.

What is was was that he'd found her collection of Folio titles - classics reissued with beautiful covers. It had been a few years back, Margaret forgot how many, but she'd been walking past the park and there'd been one of those tables, tattered books all laid out, and she'd stopped. And the lady sitting nearby had waved her over to look at a box off to the side and she'd gone (and she still didn't know why, because no gesture ever meant anything good in New York). And inside, a pile of Folio editions. She'd bought them all on sight. Nevermind that the lady had said cash only and she'd had to go to four ATMs to get enough.

And now Mr. Bell wanted them. She could part with most of them, and she helped him tag them all, sliding the Post-Its in on the title pages, but when he got to the last one, she splayed her hand across the spine and shook her head.

"Uh, I'm keeping this one, actually."

"Are you sure?" He raised his eyebrows. "I can offer you an excellent price."

"Oh, I'm sure. It's just… here, I'll show you."

She lifted the book off the shelf. It was _Little Women_ , heavy, with just the kind of weight Margaret found in all of her favorite books, the kind that said yes, this will be important.

"It's the inscription," she said, turning to where somebody, some time ago, had written a message to his daughter. "Look."

 _For my darling Fanny_

 _For your hopes, your dreams_

 _For all that I will miss_

 _For all that you will learn_

 _All my love,_

 _Your devoted father_

"Ah," said Mr. Bell when he'd finished reading. "I see."

"Yeah."

"I can hardly ask you to part with that, my dear."

Margaret smiled, and slid it back into its slot.

Back at the front desk, she tallied up the list of Mr. Bell's selections as he looked around, taking in, she supposed, the cracks running across the ceiling and the way the shelves in the children's section listed a little to the right.

"So I'll drop off your selections day after tomorrow," she said.

"Wonderful."

"Is there anything else you need from me?"

He shook his head, and slid his card across the counter. "Not at all. Here's my number, in case you change your mind about _Little Women_."

"I doubt it, but thank you."

There was a pause, where he looked like he wanted to say something, and Margaret gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

"I suppose I'm wondering," he said, "what your plans are after all of this."

Curl up in bed. Cry over another piece of her parents now lost. And then… and then get on with things.

"I'll work it out," she said.

"I'm sure you will. All right, my dear. I will see you Saturday."

"See you then."

She smiled, standing in the doorway and waving to him as he strolled up the block and around the corner. And then she fetched the pitcher of lemonade, dug into her pocket for the keys, and locked up. And went upstairs, went home.

The apartment had been a gift to herself. For years and years she'd lived a few blocks south with her parents, and then with their empty room after they died. But now she had a place of her own, a place where she could keep fresh flowers by the sink, where she could step out onto the fire escape and watch the windows across the street blaze orange in the sunset.

She loved the neighborhood, the five or six blocks between the park and the avenue where the corner was still empty from the gas leak explosion two years before. She knew everyone, could recognize them all (even in the winter, when everybody's shoulders were thick with wool coats and snow). Maybe there were better places in the world, and maybe she looked through her travel books sometimes, to see if she could find them, but this one was hers.

Margaret kicked off her shoes and went into the living room (which was also the kitchen, which was also half of her bedroom), where she flopped onto the couch and closed her eyes, not even minding that some of her hair was tickling her ear. This was it. She was never moving again.

And then her phone went off.

"Why," she muttered, "why you gotta be like that?"

It was an email, which made her sit up. And it was from him, which made her shriek just a little in the back of her throat.

They'd met on a book collecting message board that Margaret had joined early last year in an attempt to track down the last title she was missing in a long-running detective series. He'd been there, looking for something himself, she supposed, although she never saw him post. Instead, he'd sent her a private message, asking about her stock. She hadn't had what he was looking for - some military history or other - but they'd kept emailing.

And emailing. And emailing.

She didn't know his name, just his email address, which was, ridiculously, guyfromthebookmessageboard . Not that hers, indiebkstrowner , was much better.

In her last email, she'd vented to him about closing the store, about selling off what her parents had worked so hard to build, being careful the whole time to keep things vague. And now, in reply, he'd sent her something that was taking forever to load.

A PowerPoint. It was a PowerPoint, and on every slide, a picture of some garden.

 _I took these yesterday. Normally, my go-to cheer up method is pictures of puppies - just ask my sister - but you said once you like flowers, so. Here you go._

Margaret smiled, a laugh catching in her throat. She tapped the screen, ready to use more than one exclamation point in her reply (which was technically breaking her rule, but this was definitely a special occasion) when she scrolled a little further down and stopped.

 _I've been thinking. Maybe, if you're up for it, we could meet. We're both in the city, right? And I'd really like to put a face to the name. Well, put a name and a face, really, to the email address. Let me know what you think._

A meeting.

Like, a real meeting. With faces and people and everything.

Margaret slumped back onto the cushions and turned off her phone, tossing it onto the coffee table. She'd think about it. After she took a nap. Yeah, definitely a nap first.

Curled up on the couch, with her feet tucked under her, Margaret Hale drifted off to sleep. And if she was thinking about meeting guyfromthebookmessageboard, and if she was smiling just a little, well, who could blame her?

* * *

"Are you really coming in with me?"

John looked over from the car window to where his sister Fanny was perched, next to him on the edge of the backseat.

"Yes. Yes, I am."

At sixteen, Fanny Thornton was blonde, beautiful, and the sort of person who didn't look up from her phone when crossing the street. She was due to start her first year at Spence in a few weeks, and had already started the final leg of her Please Stop Accompanying Me Places World Tour.

John sighed - quietly, so that Fanny wouldn't hear - and went back to peering out the window. He'd been seventeen when their father had died, and Fanny only six. She barely remembered what it had been like, then. Him, Mom, and Fanny, crowded into a tiny apartment way up in the narrowest part of the island. Not always safe and not always well fed, but always, at the very least, together.

"It's just a campus tour," she said, after a moment of quiet. "What could happen?"

"Plenty."

He felt a tug at his arm, and Fanny propped her chin on his shoulder, looking up at him in that way she had that was pleading and threatening and adoring all at once.

"No." He shook her off. "I'm coming with you. That's that."

"Don't you have work or something?"

"What I have is a responsibility to you." Fanny harrumphed and thew herself back onto the seat. "And besides, it was me or Mom."

"Mom?"

"Yes."

"Fine, you can come."

"That's what I thought."

Ah, blessed quiet at last. He fished his phone out of his pocket and opened his email, scrolling through the work emails that wouldn't stop coming, and at last switching, with held breath, to the other account he'd made a few months before.

No response. Had he come on too strong? Was that it?

He refreshed, but still nothing. God, this was torture.

"Waiting to hear from someone?" Fanny drawled, and John didn't have to look up to know she was smiling smugly.

"No."

"Not a certain _laaaaady_ someone?"

"No."

"Not Ann Latimer?"

A laugh burst out of him. Fanny had met Ann a few weeks ago, at a charity luncheon, and had practically swooned right then and there. Since then, not a day had gone by that she hadn't managed to shoehorn Ann into some conversation or other.

"Not Ann Latimer," he said, still chuckling.

"What's funny?"

"Nothing. Here we are."

The driver eased the car up to the curb, and the doors unlocked. John got out, adjusting his suit jacket, and reached to help Fanny step gracefully onto the sidewalk.

"All right," he said, looking sternly down at her. "You call me the minute you're finished."

"Wait, I thought you were… you aren't coming in?"

"You said you didn't want me to."

"Oh," she said, weakly, and John couldn't help smiling. She was older now, but older didn't quite mean grown up.

"It'll be fine." He leaned in and pressed a firm kiss to her forehead. "You call if you need anything. I won't go far. All right?"

She nodded, slowly at first, and then like she meant it. "All right."

"Have a good time."

He watched her march up the steps, all traces of nerves gone. That was Fanny. She'd knock 'em dead.

His phone chirped, and quickly (embarrassingly quickly, he thought) he opened his email.

Still nothing, but there was a text. Ah, speak of the devil.

 _It's been ages. Lunch tomorrow? 12:30, San Marzano? Don't say no, it's not allowed. xo Ann_

He might as well. Something to do, at least, while he waited for indiebkstrowner to put him out of his misery.

 _Sure. See you then._


	3. day two

The problem was, really, that he might be wonderful.

Because, true, he was already wonderful (so, so wonderful, Margaret thought as she stepped out onto the stoop of her building), but he might turn out to be even better. And then what was she supposed to do?

It was all right if he turned out to be worse. Worse, she knew how to handle.

Late morning sun caught on the garbage cans by the curb, and she turned right, away from the bookstore. Just across the way was Higgins's, an ice cream shop and bakery that, if you asked nicely, served coffee as well. It was Margaret's favorite place to stop each morning. Not only for the coffee but for her friend, Bessie, who ran the shop with her father Nick.

"Hello," she called as she pushed the door open, the bells on the corner jingling merrily.

"Be right with you!" That was Bessie, probably buried in biscotti somewhere in the back.

"Oh, it's only me."

The shop had a large front window, and pressed up against it was a wooden bar, lined with stools in a bright yellow color that Margaret had helped pick. She flopped down onto the nearest one, the cool metal a relief against her (already sweating) skin. Good Lord. It was only June. How was it allowed to be this hot?

"Latte or coffee today?"

Margaret twisted around, her thighs unsticking from the stool, and smiled at Bessie, who was wrestling a pale green apron down over her head.

"Just coffee. And iced."

"Of course."

"How's your dad?" Margaret asked. Bessie opened a cooler, and Margaret closed her eyes, relishing the sound of the ice cubes rattling together as Bessie shoveled them into her drink.

"Oh, you know. Stubborn as ever."

"What is it this time?"

"One of those small business grants." Bessie was closer now. (The coffee was, too. Margaret licked her lips.) "We've made it to the next round of voting. But you know Dad."

"He won't ask people to vote? Not even a Tweet or something?"

"Not even a flyer on the wall."

Something cold and wet pressed against her forehead, and she shrieked, eyes flying open. Bessie was grinning, holding the iced coffee an inch from Margaret's nose.

"All done."

"The customer service here, I swear," Margaret grumbled, and Bessie laughed.

"Tell it to Yelp."

"Yeah, yeah." She hoisted herself off the stool and approached the counter, digging in her bag for her wallet. "If you want me to talk to your dad, let me know. I can tell him a small business horror story or two."

"Thanks, but I'll spare you. Hey, anything from your book guy?"

Margaret felt herself blush. She'd been sitting in this very shop when he'd sent his first email, and since then Bessie had heard every detail. This idea about meeting up was exactly the kind of thing she'd usually dissect with Bessie over melted ice cream, alone in the shop just after closing. But somehow…

"Nope. Same old, same old."

"I just think he's so - excuse me. What do you think you're doing?"

Margaret froze, three dollars crumpled in her palm. Bessie had let her pay for coffee exactly two times, and both had been as gifts to Margaret on her birthday.

"Well," she started, but Bessie was already shaking her head.

"No way."

"Oh, come on."

"You put that away or I'm taking your coffee back."

Margaret sighed deeply. "Fine."

"Fine is right."

"Ugh, I gotta get back to the books. See you tomorrow?"

Bessie came out from behind the counter and gave Margaret a quick hug. (One arm only, which was a lot, for Bessie.) "For sure."

"And my Grand Closing on Monday?"

"It's on my calendar. Wouldn't miss it."

"All right. Bye, lady."

"Have fun packing!"

Back out on the sidewalk, Margaret took a long sip of her coffee and crossed the street to the shady side. She wasn't sure, exactly, why she hadn't mentioned anything to Bessie about the latest email from guyfromthebookmessageboard. Maybe it was that this one felt more personal. More real.

Well, whatever it was, it would all of it have to wait. Because there was, somehow, still more packing to be done.

Now that Mr. Bell had made his selections (and now that she'd saved Little Women for herself), the rest of the books could be organized into boxes for donation to the local library. It was just a matter of getting everything sorted, and of not getting crushed under the reference books that her father had decided to store on the top shelf.

With her coffee stored in the fridge under the desk and her hair wrenched back into another messy ponytail, Margaret was ready to work. And work she did, until just past noon, when somebody (who apparently could not read the "Closed" sign on the door) decided to knock.

From her spot between the first and second shelves of mystery novels, Margaret could just see the door and the outline of a man standing on the other side of it. But he couldn't see her. Maybe, if she didn't answer, he'd just leave.

Except he didn't. The outline knocked again. Tried the door handle. Margaret rolled her eyes. Some people - in fact, almost all people - were the worst.

"We're closed," she yelled, and smiled smugly as the outline jumped and seemed to stumble away.

"Sorry, sorry," and fine, all right, she could admit it. It was a nice-sounding kind of voice. All deep and rumbly. "I'm just, I'm wondering if you can help me."

"Not really, since we're, you know, closed."

A pause, and then the nice-sounding voice came back. (Only, a little less nice-sounding now, and a little more angry-sounding.) "Look, I'm only trying to find this one book. It's a gift for my sister."

"We don't have it."

"I haven't said what I'm looking for."

She marched across the room, and smacked her hand up against the door, pushing the "Closed" sign a little more fully into view. "We! Don't! Have it!"

On the other side of the glass, a very tall and very handsome man stood, leaning over a little and looking at her with surprised, blue eyes. His lips were pressed together firmly, but then, as she watched (or really, stared, if she were being honest) they trembled a little, pulling at the edges like he was about to smile.

"Didn't you hear me?" she said, frowning even harder than she had been, because damn, she was about to smile, too, which was unacceptable.

"All right, all right," he said, stern now, and sharp. "I'm leaving. Easy."

And then he was gone.

Margaret leaned back against a row of older books, each with Fabio on the cover, hair streaming behind him, shirt appropriately ripped. She hadn't meant to be so snippy. It was just this whole thing, packing up the store, being surrounded by her parents and yet completely without them. It was getting to her.

She took a deep breath. Maybe the outline was still somewhere on the sidewalk. Maybe she could catch him. Apologize.

But when she opened the door and leaned out into the street, there was nobody, nobody who might have been the very tall and very handsome man.

She slumped back against the wall. Well. She'd be regretting that all day.

* * *

John stormed away from Helstone Books, hands shoved deep into his pockets. That had not gone at all according to plan. Some people. Some people just didn't know how to conduct business, that was it.

And yes, maybe the woman inside - the insufferable woman inside - had the kind of voice you wanted to hear more of, and yes, maybe he'd been struck by the vividness of her, of her face and her eyes, and yes, maybe, just maybe he had almost laughed at how indignant she'd gotten, but that didn't excuse being so rude.

He was furious.

He was fuming.

He was angry, very angry, so angry he was about to turn around and go back, just to give her a piece of his mind and also maybe his number when-

An email.

An email from indiebkstrowner.

He stopped walking immediately and opened it, waving off the two people who crashed directly into his back. Had she agreed to meet? And if she had, would she by some miracle suggest meeting now, which would let him avoid this lunch with Ann?

 _I'm sorry it's taken me so long to reply. I've been thinking, you see. I wasn't sure at first, about meeting, but somebody came by my shop today and I was, well, a beast to them. And I'm wishing I could find them to apologize, but I can't, and I was thinking that I don't want to wish, one day, that I could find you, and then not be able to._

 _Does that make sense?_

 _I think I'd very much like to meet, but I wonder if you'd let me mull it over just a little bit more. I'm sorry. I only want to be sure._

Somebody shoved past him, and he shuffled off to the edge of the sidewalk, dazed.

She hadn't said no. That was the most important bit.

In fact, she'd very nearly said yes. And she'd said something else, too, about wanting to find him, that made something hitch in his chest.

So they didn't have plans to meet, and he couldn't get out of lunch with Ann. That was all right. Things were looking up. He typed out a response.

 _Of course. I understand. Take all the time you need._

At the restaurant, Ann was already seated, her hair settled just right so that one large curl was draped perfectly over her shoulder, and the rest was hanging neatly down her back. If Fanny had been there, John thought as he sat down, she would've taken notes.

"So good to see you, darling," Ann said, holding out her hand. (To be shaken, or kissed? He was never sure.)

John clasped it lightly, and then arranged his napkin in his lap as the waitress filled his water glass. These lunches with Ann usually followed the same pattern - he would arrive, and Ann would introduce one conversation subject after another until the check came, at which point he would pay and thank her for a lovely time. Any minute now, she'd start on the first of her list of topics, which he liked to imagine she kept in a note on her phone somewhere.

They made it through the New York City Ballet, the crane accident on 57th, and the merger of her father's manufacturing company with one located in the north of England before the main course plates had been cleared, at which point Ann cleared her throat delicately and went to the restroom.

John leaned back and pulled out his phone. Ann could have her list of conversation topics - he had his list of bookstores.

Before his death, when Fanny had been four or five, their father had given her a gift. A book, the rare sort, with a lovely cover that he could only just picture. There'd been something inside, a dedication or an inscription, and his mother had teared up when she'd read it (although she'd never admit to it, certainly).

They'd had to sell it. After the funeral, when things were tight, and when they hadn't know how they'd be able to keep going. It had brought in more than they'd expected. It had helped them to live. And now that things were better, John wanted to get it back.

It was nearly impossible, he knew. He couldn't even remember the book's title. But for Fanny… well, he'd do this for Fanny. He'd try.

So he pulled out his phone, and he opened his list of bookstores, the ones he was scouring for Fanny's book, and he deleted Helstone Books off the bottom. No good there. He'd try The Strand next. Maybe tomorrow morning.

Yes, tomorrow morning. Maybe he'd finally have some luck.


	4. day three

It was her own fault, if she was being honest. She'd picked Saturday to drop the stock off at The Strand, Saturday when the sidewalks were thick with tourists and locals alike. She hadn't asked Nicholas to help. And she hadn't sprung for a cab.

Instead, she was struggling across 12th, dragging two wheelie suitcases behind her and nudging one along in front of her. And on top of this indignity, she was, of course, sweating buckets.

It would all be worth it, though, when she came out with a fresh wad of twenties (okay, probably ones) in her hand.

The inside of the store was blessedly cool and Margaret stopped just past the door, letting one of the suitcases drift down the aisle in front of her. Her forehead was starting to dry. She lifted her ponytail off the back of her neck and sighed heavily, her eyes falling shut.

"My dear," came a voice from up ahead. Mr. Bell. "I think this might be yours."

He was holding, Margaret saw when she opened her eyes, her wayward suitcase. And judging from the look he was giving it, it had probably rolled over one of his feet, if not both.

"Yes," she said, feeling her cheeks heat. "Sorry."

"Not to worry. Come along."

He led her down the narrow aisle to where a desk was waiting like an island in the crowd of customers and books. Margaret knelt down and unzipped her suitcases, handing books up to Mr. Bell, who began stacking them in a clear space on the desk. She could hear him making small sounds as he flipped through the first pages of each volume. Oh, God, she hoped none of them had gotten damaged in the trip over. Served her right for being too cheap for a cab.

"Right," she said when she'd finished unloading. "What do you think?"

Mr. Bell bent over the books, pencil in hand as he scratched numbers onto the notepad beside him. Margaret watched anxiously, wishing he would just press down a little harder so she could make out the prices he was estimating.

Most of the customers were being served at another desk a few feet over, where two young employees were growing increasingly harried as they hustled to locate particular titles. But out of the corner of her eye, Margaret saw a tall figure break away from the line forming there and head in their direction.

"Excuse me," he said, and it was a he, Margaret registered absently, more focused on the total that Mr. Bell was adding up. "Sorry to interrupt."

His voice was deep. Pleasant. Oddly familiar. And the silhouette… Margaret looked up.

Oh.

Same blue eyes, same mouth, same everything.

"You're here," she said, and he looked just as surprised as she felt.

"So are you."

"Can I help?" said Mr. Bell, and Margaret kept her eyes firmly forward - no need to look over when she could hear the teasing smile in Mr. Bell's voice very well from here.

"Yeah," said the man, blinking slowly. "I'm looking for a book."

"Well, you've come to the right place. Give me just a minute, won't you?"

Mr. Bell bent over his notepad again, leaving Margaret to stare at the man. She'd been practicing an apology to him in her head since yesterday, but now, now all she could manage was a strangled sound and a little shrug when he looked at her with a concerned frown.

"You've, uh, you've got a lot of books here," the man said after a stretch of silence so long that Margaret was sure she'd aged at least a year.

"Yes."

"You selling them?"

"Yes," she said again, and she knew other words in the English language, she really did, but they were all just a little too far out of reach at the moment.

"Weren't selling them yesterday," the man said, under his breath. Margaret felt a spark of anger in her chest, and it cleared her head like sun burning mist off a lake.

"We were closed," she said, all indignation. "There was a sign."

"I just wanted a quick look. It would've taken five minutes."

"Five minutes is a lot when the store is closed."

He pulled out his phone and shifted from foot to foot, swiping rapidly across the screen. "If it was closed, why were you there?"

"Ah," said Mr. Bell, just as Margaret opened her mouth to say something that was made up largely of expletives, "I think we're all set."

Margaret frowned one last time at the man and turned back to Mr. Bell, who had written and circled a number on the notepad.

"What do you think?" he asked her.

It was a lot. Not too much - she was only selling books, after all, and none of them particularly old or rare - but more than the handful of ones she'd figured she'd be leaving with. "That'll be fine," she said.

"Excellent." Mr. Bell waved over another employee. "We'll get these boxed up and then get you sorted."

"Thanks," she said, and crouched down to rezip the suitcases.

"In the meantime," said Mr. Bell, "what can I help you with, young man?"

"I'm looking for this book from a while ago," the man said. Margaret tried to pretend she wasn't eavesdropping. "I can't even remember the title, but it had a really nice cover, and pretty stuff on the inside. What are they called, endpapers?"

"An older edition, then," said Mr. Bell. "Higher end, yes?"

"I'd recognize it if I saw it. It had gold embossing, too. I remember that." He was staring down at his phone again, biting his lip.

Mr. Bell seemed to be thinking, and then he wheeled around to look down at Margaret. "Could it be a Folio edition?" he asked her.

She shrugged. "Possibly."

The man leaned forward suddenly, his eyes alight, and his elbow knocked a pile of hardcovers off the desk and onto Margaret's head.

"Wonderful," she said. Her ears were ringing. There was a throbbing at her temples. The corner of _Anna Karenina_ had nearly taken her eye out.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry," the man was saying, and he'd come around the desk to crouch down next to her. "Are you all right?"

"No permanent damage," she said. He took hold of her arm and helped her to her feet. "Although if I don't wake up tomorrow morning we know why."

"Do you need any medicine? Advil?" He began to dig through his pockets. "I think I might have something, or ice, is there any ice?"

"It's all right." Margaret took a small step back. She wasn't feeling quite so dizzy anymore. "Anyway."

"Right, anyway." He smiled weakly at her. "You said it might be a Folio edition. Where can I find those?"

Mr. Bell was holding his index finger in front of Margaret's face and was moving it back and forth to test her vision. "This young lady might be able to help you," he said. "She's just sold me a wonderful batch of titles."

The man moved to the desk and began sorting through the stacks of books Mr. Bell had created. "Nothing looks familiar," he said, shaking his head. "Do you have any others?"

Margaret thought of _Little Women_ , tucked safely on her own shelf. "Nope. Sorry."

* * *

Damn. But at least he was closer than he'd been in a long while. Now he had something to look for.

There was a red mark by the woman's right eye, and John clenched his fists in his pockets to keep from reaching out and smoothing a finger over it. God, he could be such an idiot. Yes, she was the categorical worst - as if opening the store for five minutes would've made a difference - but he hadn't meant to hurt her.

"Hey," he said. "I'm really sorry about before. About all of the before," he added, hoping she would know what he meant. "Can I buy you coffee or something? To make up for it."

She looked taken aback, but not utterly disgusted, which he figured was a good sign. She glanced briefly at the Strand employee who'd been helping her (Adam, his nametag said, although he hardly looked like the kind of person you addressed by their first name) and the man smiled warmly.

"You two run off," he said. "I'll finish things here and your money will be waiting for you upon your return."

They decided, without speaking, on the coffee shop across the street, which had minimal seating and where they could hardly be expected to stay for very long. The line stretched back all the way to the door, and John shifted to let the woman enter first, so she could stand all the way inside the shop, where the air conditioning reached.

"So," he said, searching desperately for something to say, "you must like books."

The look she gave him was absolutely withering, and John decided that it was probably safest to just stay silent, buy her a coffee, and then run for his life. He pulled his phone out and opened his email, refreshing it a few times before sighing quietly and putting it away again. Nothing from indiebkstrowner. He'd meant it when he'd said to take all the time she needed, but he'd hoped that would wind up being a few minutes, not a few days.

"You look disappointed," the woman said suddenly, and he looked down at her. She was still staring straight ahead, but her shoulders were tilted a fraction in his direction.

"Just waiting for an email."

"From work?" They shuffled forward a few places in line. "You look like a work email kind of guy."

He couldn't really fault her for that. He was the one wearing slacks and a button-down in June. "Not work."

"Oh." A beat, and then, "A girl?"

"That obvious?"

She smiled, and he was pretty sure it was close to genuine. "A bit."

They were at the counter now, and he gestured for her to order first. She ordered something complicated and iced, and he was watching a bead of sweat roll down her temple when the barista cleared her throat loudly.

"And you, sir?"

"Um, just a hot black coffee."

The woman raised an eyebrow. Yeah, he was definitely going to wish he'd gotten something iced.

They moved over to the side to wait for their drinks, and the woman - how was it he still didn't know her name? - rocked back on her heels.

"So what's the problem?" she said. "With this girl."

"I, uh, I asked her out. She said she'd think about it."

"And she's still thinking."

"Yeah."

His black coffee was ready and he snagged a sleeve for it before taking a sip. Jesus, it was hot. There went half of his taste buds.

"Well," the woman said, "I'm sure it'll work out."

"Really?"

Her drink arrived. She took a long sip. "Yeah. I mean, you're awful," and she grinned, "but I bet she doesn't think so."

"That's nice of you to say. Sort of."

They wound their way through the crowd of waiting customers to the door, and slipped out onto the sidewalk. As soon as she was out of sight, John was dumping this coffee in the nearest trash can.

"Thanks for the coffee," she said.

"I really am sorry about earlier."

"Yeah." She looked down. "Me, too. I hope you find that book."

"Thanks," he said, and then stuck his hand out, feeling stupid even as he did it. "I'm John."

It was a moment before she responded, but she shook his hand, her grip firm. "Margaret."

"Hi."

"Hi."

He was starting to smile, and she was, too, when his phone rang. He pulled it out. Hamper, probably with some big work problem. He couldn't ignore it.

"Sorry," he said, and answered the call. "Hey, what's up?"

Hamper began to chatter in his ear, and the woman - Margaret, she was Margaret - smiled and raised her hand in a quick wave before heading back across the street to the bookstore. He watched until she'd disappeared through the doors.

"Wait, hang on," he said into the phone. "Can you run through all that again?"

* * *

Saturday, 9:14 PM

From: indiebkstrowner 

To: guyfromthebookmessageboard 

Thank you for being so patient. I'd really love to meet up.

What about tomorrow? 6:30, outside the Joseph Morgan Library?

Hope I see you then.


End file.
